


Sorry

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Prompt: Scully slaps Mulder after he says something about William. Very heated argument, but also comfort later? Pre-revival.





	Sorry

There is rain on the way. The low rumble of thunder spreads through the house, cracking in the rafters. Mulder has talked for years about doing the roof but on days like this she kind of enjoys the way the weather slips through and reminds them they’re not alone out here.

She looks out at him, hunched over in the garden pulling out weeds. He needs more vitamin D, she thinks as she fills the kettle. Cooped up in the office, skin sloughing off onto old files and photos, his DNA marking everything. On his knees, he stretches up, cricking his neck and when the first pelts of rain hit, he holds his arms up, supplicant. On most days now, she understands there is no God. None who would have knowingly allowed their lives to have played out like they have; abductions and cancer and lost children and death, so much death. But if Mulder is willing to pray, she won’t deny that. Her science cannot soothe his battered spirit from the darkness, meditation, medication (both spiritual and alcoholic) have not provided him, or her, with any hope. If the weather can salve his withering soul, she’ll let it.

Later, he slides into bed as the lightning filters through new morning cloud. His skin is damp and the aroma of earth fills the room.

“Were you out all night?” She hears the irritation tugging at her words.

He rolls away from her and doesn’t answer. Staying is hard, but leaving is harder.

In some ways, Mulder has never changed. He’s still in his childhood bedroom, his parents’ living room, the basement, the alien ship, his jail cell screaming into the void. Everybody stopped listening years ago. Especially when his screaming is now just a silent rage. She hasn’t broken through yet; she’s not sure she ever will. Truth, fuck that word, truth is she’s not sure she can, or wants to. Some days she’s not sure what there is to salvage. What would they have together that they haven’t already buried or given away?

The ticket is on the table. She’s held it in her hand so often that the corner is rumpled and soft. She still hasn’t told him she’s going. It has never been the right time. When has there ever been a right time for them? But she tells herself it’s the right time for her. She needs to do this for herself.

“I’ve made coffee,” she says, pushing his mug across the table. A little spills out and he stares at the brown droplets like they’re communicating something to him. His intensity is as disarming as ever. “Mulder?”

He blinks, sits and drinks. She picks up the envelope with the ticket, feeling its weight like an anchor. Sink or swim.

“I’m going away, Mulder. There’s a training course, a chance for some professional development. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

Outside, there’s a bird flitting around an unkempt rose bush that straddles the weathered pergola. It sits on a branch, pushing it down so that the flower on the end falls, face down.

“Did you hear me, Mulder? I leave on Thursday.”

Without warning he grabs her wrist, sending the coffee mug clattering between them. Hot liquid splashes her hand and she flinches. His hand pins hers and the fine pain of bone against wood resonates up her arm. She tries to free herself but he doesn’t respond to her pulling motion.

“Mulder!” She doesn’t want to tell him he’s hurting her but her fingers are tingling as she stands up, trying for more leverage. Twisting her hand to its side, she manages to pull it from his grip, cradling it to her chest. He stares at her, eyes hardened. The coffee is dripping over the edge of the table, its earthy smell rising on the stifling air. Another day of storms is forecast; her temples throb with pressure.

“You had it planned,” he says.

She takes a roll of paper towel and cleans the spill. “It will help my career. It’s a qualification that will…”

“Take you places?” he adds. He’s pulling his ring finger through the pincer grip of his index finger and thumb on his other hand. As she mops the coffee, he repeats the movement over and over, each stroke becoming faster.

“I wanted to do this training a few years ago, but…”

“I held you back?”

There’s a welling sigh caught in her chest, fuelled as much by confusion as frustration. “Mulder, what is this about? Why are you being so…” Her word choice is important; his fragile frame of mind has often had her tiptoeing around the edges of conversations so as not to tip him into a rage. There have been days where they haven’t spoken because there are no words she can let fly safely. She lets out the breath, laden with the unspoken. “This means a lot to me. And I think the break will do us both some good.” The nerves in her wrist are zinging back to life. She sits next to him, watching that pulse in his jaw.

He doesn’t turn to her, but he stops working his fingers. Outside, lightning jags across the sky and the light in the living room sparks. The bird flies away.

“This is it,” he says, then screws his hands into fists. “This is the way you do it. When it gets tough, you take the elements of your life, hold them in your hands, weigh them up and then drop the one that holds you back the most.”

There would have been a time when she would have shot straight back at him, bated him into an argument, turned his words back on himself, pointing out his hypocrisies and together they would have found the path to the truth; but there is fear inside him now, not passion. His darkness has coursed through his marrow and blighted the things she came to love about him. Traits she thought immutable. Lately, only desperation thrives in him, but not the desperation that led him to achieve remarkable results; Mulder is controlled now by the still fury of his life being rendered impotent.

“You told me years ago that you held me back, Scully. Do you remember that?”

She knows, in this mood, he has the capacity to recall every exchange, so she simply shakes her head. She doesn’t remember but she can see how she might have said it. Her logic, her scepticism, her science was designed to pose challenges to his quest. She had started out as a spy. She just didn’t know what she was to him anymore. Or how she would end up.

Thunder booms as he stands. “You tried to make me feel like you were doing me a favour, by setting me free. That’s how you operate. You twist things to martyr yourself.”

“Mulder,” she says softly, recognising the spark building in him. “We don’t have to talk about this now.”

“But we do, Scully. Because you’re not coming back. You’ve been planning this for years.” He stands and paces, reverting to that finger tic. The muscles in his upper arm ripple, defining his hardness.

“I’m not leaving.” She walks to where he’s leaning against the sink. Brooding clouds are gathering, turning the land to a dull grey.

He swings round, stepping so close that he fills her vision. She doesn’t move but swallows, fighting against the sudden surge of adrenaline. Her skin prickles as lightning makes a fleet run across the sky.

“You give up, Scully. But you disguise it as making decisions for the best, as putting others first.”

The way he slams the door stuns her. She doesn’t move for moment, she can’t. His words roll around her mind. You give up, Scully. When he stopped taking his meds, she didn’t push. When he hid his whisky in the desk drawer, she turned a blind eye. When he disappeared for days on end, she never questioned where he’d been. She has always had the capacity to tuck away the things that threaten to grow too unwieldy to manage. Packaging them up so they remain neat, unwrapped. Perhaps he’s right, she thinks as she takes the first step to the bedroom. Perhaps she runs when she should stay. Perhaps she looks to the horizon when she should focus on the now. Perhaps now is the time to unwrap the package.

He’s leaning against the dresser against the wall. His spine is rounded, vertebrae protruding. When did he get so spare? His reflection startles her, the darkness under his eyes, the white line of his lips, the flare of his nostrils. He’s as wild as the weather around them, as electric.

“Mulder,” she says, breathing softness into his name, but he swipes the brush and mirror set off the dresser. The clatter reverberates on the wood flooring. Next goes the makeup bag and face cream. When he grabs her jewellery stand, she reaches out to stop him, but he shoves her hand aside and there’s an explosion of gold and gems. She watches the chains and hoops roll over the floor.

“Why are you still here?” His hands tremble and he knows she’s seen, so he closes them to fists. She takes a step back and he laughs, a dry bark. “What’s the matter, Scully? Do you think I’m going to hit you?”

“Are you?”

There’s a momentary pause, a slow blink as though he’s come back to her for a second. His fists loosen, his lips pop open. He’s backlit by a fierce bolt of lightning and she thinks of all the times they’ve been exposed to the elements, this is by far the most dangerous storm.

“Go, Scully. Go be a doctor.” He stoops to pick up an earring, a small pearl in a simple clasp. “I told you that once too. Remember?”

She nods. “I do, Mulder. I remember. I remember you saved me. You saved my life.”

“You stayed then,” he says. “You stayed and you said you loved me. But it’s not true, it’s never been true.”

“Mulder, I do love you. I love you more than words could ever do justice. You are the only person who has ever made me feel.” She risks a step towards him, holding out a hand to him. He’s looking away to the mess on the floor. In that moment, she sees the vulnerable boy in him, the one who couldn’t save his sister, the one who couldn’t save his parents’ marriage, the one who must have spent nights curled up on his bed wondering at the cruelty of a life that would steal a child away forever and leave another in plain sight but just as alone.

His hand softens in her grasp. His shoulders droop. She feels a connection building again. “I’m worried about you, Mulder. I want you to come back to me.” There’s a rumble outside that runs through the roof. She steps even closer and sees the gooseflesh across his skin.

He’s panting. His eyes are wet. He lifts the earring between them. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “It reminds me of you back then. So neat and compact. You shone. You knew what you wanted and you made me want it too.”

“I’m still the same person, Mulder. But the world changes around us.”

“You made me want him,” he says, looking right at her.

“Who?”

“Who?” he says, his voice rising. “Who? William is who. Our son. You made me want him and then you sent me away.”

She steps back. “No, Mulder. It wasn’t safe, remember? You had to leave.”

“But you gave him away, Scully. You turned me out and you sent him away and you just got on with life.” Lightning flashes and she starts, crushing a necklace under her feet. He throws the earring to the floor and lunges forward, grabbing her shoulders. “You gave him up and you’re giving me up and you’ll tell everybody that it’s for the best.”

His fingers dig into her shoulder bones and she squirms. His breath is hot over her face, anger firing him so that his skin is ruddy.

“Let me go, Mulder. You’re hurting me.”

He doesn’t move. “You hurt me.”

“I didn’t mean to, Mulder. You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“You’re leaving.”

She sinks down and escapes his grip, stumbling back over the mess on the floor. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You leave everybody. Willis, Waterston. You let Emily die.”

Her heart hurts. Her head spins. Her legs tremble. She focuses on his frame of mind, but his words are weapons, stabbing at her and she feels helpless to know what to do. He’s pacing the floor, rambling. The first pelts of rain strike the windows and roof. Slow, sharp noises that cut her like Mulder’s accusations.

He’s in her face now, looming over her. “You dumped our son and I guess I’m lucky last.”

The connection of her hand to his cheek reverberates up her arm, into her shoulder. Her palm stings, shocking her back to the now. He stands utterly still before her. There’s not a flicker of emotion. The welt on his skin blooms and he says nothing, does nothing. The rain hammers down and her tears fall to where the jewellery shines up at her. In the time it takes for a bolt of lightning to flare, he falls, thudding to his knees and dropping to all fours. He vomits all over the jewellery, coughing and hacking.

She kneels beside him and rubs between his shoulders, feeling the knots of his spine. He heaves again and she brings her hand to the back of his neck. He sits on his heels, grabs at her thigh, squeezing. She tenses, takes a sharp breath, but he relaxes his grip and turns to her, burying his face into her neck. The wetness of his mouth, where he’s been sick, wicks through her top and the smell filters into her nostrils, but she doesn’t care. She pulls him closer, letting him almost push her over with his sobbing weight.

“I’m not leaving you, Mulder. I would never.”

Later, as the storm passes, the bird is back on the rose bush, flitting about from branch to branch. The sun, watery silver, breaks through the billowing clouds. Mulder is in bed. He fell asleep with the word ‘sorry’ on his lips. He said it a thousand times.

She fingers the photo of William and calls the airline. She tells them she can’t make it. That she’s sorry.


End file.
